"STOP BEING DRAMATIC! MY MOTHER COMES FIRST!" He Roared At His Laboring Wife—Until A 63-Year-Old Billionaire Arrived At Her Door With A 32-Year-Old Secret!

Back in the glittering expanse of the St. Regis ballroom, the dessert course was being served. Servers in white gloves carried platters of gold-leaf chocolate ganache and spun-sugar towers. The laughter was louder now, fueled by thousands of dollars worth of vintage champagne and top-shelf bourbon.

Julian Sterling leaned against the high marble bar at the edge of the room, loosening his silk bow tie slightly. He felt invincible. Several prominent investors from Greenwich had just agreed to meet with him on Monday regarding his new hedge fund portfolio.

His mother, Evelyn, glided up to him, her emeralds clinking against her diamond collar. Her lips were painted a sharp crimson, curved into an imperial smirk.

"You handled that little outburst well, Julian," Evelyn murmured, sipping her martini. "A man must establish boundaries early. If you let a woman believe her pregnancy gives her the right to summon you like a chauffeur, she will control your life forever."

"She’s just overly sensitive, Mother," Julian replied with a casual wave of his hand. "She has no family, no connections. She knows where her bread is buttered. Once the baby is delivered, she’ll be too tired to complain."

Evelyn’s smirk tightened into something far more predatory. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so that only Julian could hear. "Have you checked the safe in your study? Are you certain she hasn't found the correspondence from Blackwood & Croft?"

Julian frowned, a flicker of irritation crossing his handsome features. "Mother, I told you, I buried it under the mortgage deeds in the bottom drawer of the entryway console until I could get the conservatorship papers drawn up. Elena doesn't even know what a trust fund looks like. She thinks lawyers only exist on television."

"Good," Evelyn whispered coldly. "Because if that girl discovers who she actually is before you secure her signature on the full power-of-attorney documents, the Montgomery estate will never pass through our hands. Arthur Montgomery has no other heirs. If Elena inherits directly, she could divorce you tomorrow and leave you with nothing. But if she signs the post-nuptial family trust we drafted—declaring that all hereditary assets are managed solely by you for the 'protection of the child'—the Sterling family will command one of the greatest fortunes in the Western world."

Julian grinned, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass. "The notary is coming to the house on Wednesday. I’ll tell her it’s standard hospital paperwork for the baby’s health insurance. She signs whatever I put in front of her."

"That's my boy," Evelyn purred, tapping his cheek with a manicured finger.

At that exact moment, Julian’s phone buzzed in his tuxedo pocket.

Julian pulled it out, expecting it to be Elena calling to grovel and apologize for interrupting his evening. But the caller ID didn't show his wife's name. It showed a private, unlisted ten-digit number from a Manhattan exchange.

Julian tapped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. "Sterling here. Make it quick, I’m at a private function."

A voice came through the line. It was not loud. It did not shout. But it possessed a terrifying, subterranean weight that seemed to suck the oxygen straight out of Julian’s lungs.

"Julian Sterling."

Julian froze. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. "Who is this? How did you get this number?"

"My name is Arthur Montgomery," the voice said calmly.

The glass of champagne in Julian’s hand suddenly felt as heavy as a lead weight. His heart gave a violent, sickening thud against his ribs. The color instantly drained from his face, leaving his skin the shade of wet parchment.

"M-Montgomery?" Julian stammered, his aristocratic composure shattering like cheap porcelain. "Mr. Montgomery... sir? I... I don't understand. Is this about the maritime logistics proposal my firm submitted to your board?"

Evelyn saw her son’s sudden terror. The smile vanished from her face. She stepped closer, her sharp eyes boring into him. "Julian? Who is that?"

The voice on the other end chuckled—a low, humorless sound that felt like the cocking of a hammer.

"I am not calling about your pathetic shell company, Julian. I am calling from St. Jude’s Memorial Hospital. I am currently standing outside Operating Room 4."

Julian felt the room spin. The clinking of silverware, the jazz quartet playing in the corner, the chatter of the billionaires—all of it faded into a deafening, high-pitched ringing.

"Operating room...?" Julian whispered.

"Your wife is on the table," Arthur said, each word hitting Julian like a sledgehammer. "Her placenta separated. She has lost two liters of blood because you left her on the floor like garbage to drink champagne with your parasitic mother."

Julian’s knees went completely weak. His fingers twitched uncontrollably.

*CRASH!*

His crystal champagne glass slipped from his hand, shattering violently against the marble floor, splashing Dom Pérignon across Evelyn’s silk gown. Several guests turned in alarm, but Julian didn't even notice.

"How... how do you know Elena?" Julian choked out, his voice cracking into a panicked squeak. "Why are you there?!"

Through the receiver, Arthur Montgomery’s voice turned into pure, merciless ice.

"Because the woman you left to die is Genevieve Montgomery. My daughter. The sole heir to everything I own."

Julian’s breath hitched. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead, drenching his stiff collar.

"And five weeks ago," Arthur continued, the rage vibrating through the line so intensely that Julian could feel it through the speaker, "a letter was sent to her. A letter that you stole. A letter that you hid in an entryway drawer while you plotted to rob her."

"No... Mr. Montgomery, listen to me, that’s a misunderstanding! I was going to tell her—"

"GET TO THE HOSPITAL. NOW," Arthur commanded. "Bring your mother. Let her witness the beginning of your destruction."